


No Ready Cure

by PumpkinWrites



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, One-sided Doyle/Locus, RvB Rare Pair Week, RvB Rare Pair Week 2019, Vomiting/Coughing Up Flower Petals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-02-28 18:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18762034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinWrites/pseuds/PumpkinWrites
Summary: Lovesickness in two drastically different senses of the word. One of them is hopelessly in love, and that love is slowly killing them. The other, unfortunately, can only stand by and watch the object of their own affections choke to death on flower petals not meant for them. Or can they?





	1. Chapter 1

"Hey, uh, has your general always had that cough?"

Agent Washington is _very_ perceptive, she’s noticed. And of _course_ he would have noticed the general’s persistent cough. General Doyle tries to cover it, or at least stifle it, but it’s quite obvious that he’s trying not to cough. And he always has an excuse at the ready: a dry mouth or throat, dust, simply running out of air from talking. But some of his excuses make such little sense, it truly baffles her that anyone could possibly believe them.

It occurs to her that Agent Washington is still talking, so she continues to listen. "--nds really bad, there could be mold or something causing it. If it’s mold, we have to find the source--"

"Oh, it’s not mold! Or dust! Or _any_ other outside irritant!" she chirps, pushing some of his hair out of the way to check how the site of his most recent procedure is healing. She nods, noting the progress, and releases his hair to scribble on her note-taking datapad. “And the altitude of the outpost isn’t _high_ enough to cause trouble for someone wearing armor with _built-in life support_ systems -- though even if it _was_ , he’d be acclimated by now!”

"... okay, well, is it like… is he sick?"

"It isn’t allergies, asthma, bronchitis, congestive _heart_ failure, coronary _artery_ disease, _drug_ overdose, emphysema, _influenza_ , kidney disease, pertussis, pneumonia, pneumo _thorax_ , pulmonary _edema_ , neurogenic _or_ otherwise, sepsis, _or_ tuberculosis!" Emily’s grip tightens on her notepad, and she forces the corners of her mouth up into a wider grin behind her helmet. More than a few years ago, her face would have started hurting by now. Not anymore, though, actually, her face hurts more when she’s _not_ smiling anymore. " _But_ ! As his condition is not _immediately_ life-threatening, and will _never_ be contagious, and he is my _superior_ officer, I can’t exactly _compel_ him to allow me to treat it! I think he's a _little_ intimidated by the recovery period, but it’s _not_ like my medical wing is very _bus_ y up here!"

"... oh. Hey uh... do you like... maybe want me to talk to him? Maybe try to convince him to let you help with… whatever it is?"

"You can if you’d _like_ , but there’s simply _no_ convincing him, I’m afraid! I’ve tried." She swears she can feel her notepad about to crack in her hands. "Now, is there _anything_ else, Agent Washington?"

"... uh, no, I guess that’s it."

"Then you’re free to leave now!"

He hops up from the chair and snatches up his helmet from her desk, putting it back onto his head as he rushes out. Once the door closes behind him, she drops her notepad a little too carelessly onto the desktop, and sits down a little too hard in her chair.

It seems like only yesterday that the general had stumbled into her office, finally, to see her about his coughing, though it had been a couple of years now. She’d asked her standard questions, of course, going through her standard mental checklist as she gathered supplies to start taking vitals and doing a thorough check of the symptoms. A cough is the body’s response to an irritant in the throat, airways, or lungs, she’d told him. It’s the body forcing out the irritant by pushing air out of the lungs. It can happen without an actual irritant, it happens with dry throats sometimes too. Her first instinct had been to conclusively rule out pleural effusion first, in order to make sure General Doyle’s lungs weren’t just filling with fluid. However, the cause of his coughing had become apparent as soon as he’d taken off his helmet.

She’d only seen the illness during medical school, when during the time they’d spent on it and several other pulmonary illnesses, but there was no question as to what it was as she watched a collection of spit-shiny flower petals fluttered and tumbled to the ground, shaken out of his helmet.

There’s a number of names for it, but the most accepted name for it is "hanahaki disease," or, medically, "hanahaki-type pneumafytotrophy." As opposed to mycelium-type pneumafytotrophy, which she’s always found to be a misnomer, "pneumamykitatrophy" would be more correct, considering how words work, the fact that fungi aren’t plants, and the fact that mycelium is a specific part of the fungus rather than a category of fungus. She’s been _dying_ to lobby for a name-change on that front, considering mycelium and fungus proper aren’t the same and technically the name should be accurate. There could be "fungal-type pneumamykitatrophy" and "mycelium-type pneumamykitatrophy," but the civil war has sort of prevented her from pursuing anything official in terms of experimentation or publishing.

First referenced on Earth, hanahaki disease is attributed to a region called "Japan," she believes, similar to takotsubo cardiomyopathy, which had been identified in that region over five hundred and sixty years ago, in 1990. It’s been seen in other cultures, though, particularly close to the region of origin. No one is, apparently, entirely sure _when_ the concept originated, and it was, allegedly, thought to be a fictional illness at first, but it had been discovered to be all too real. No one is entirely certain what causes it, but the most commonly-accepted theory is that it's a rare genetic mutation, possibly hereditary, that is usually entirely harmless. However, the going theory is that prolonged exposure to the hormones and other neurotransmitters produced by the anxiety of unexpressed emotion, in this case unrequited love, trigger the mutation to activate, and produce plant-like growths inside of the lungs. Incredibly plant-like, as a matter of fact, as they include functioning roots, and petals! Those roots usually grow into, and eventually, through, the lung tissue, and the growths cause so many complications!

_"Well, the good news is that this condition is very treatable!"_

_"‘Treatable?’ Not curable?"_

_"Well, the possibility of regrowth exists, of course, but it’s not common! Unfortunately, if the affections aren’t returned, or if the growths aren’t removed, the disease will eventually become fatal!"_

_"And there’s no adverse side effects to the surgery?"_

_"Well, unfortunately, there is one noteworthy side effect. Your brain will no longer register that person in the same way: you will lose all ability to feel romantically attracted to them."_

She’d explained his condition to him, in no uncertain terms, had even taken a few chest scans in order to verify the diagnosis. The growths can become starved and die if the body stops producing the substances that feed them, usually through the return of the feelings that originally caused them, removing some of the neurotransmitters from the cocktail. But the sadly more common treatment is surgery to remove the growths. It was actually a very easy fix. Honestly, treating fluid in the lungs would be far more difficult. But he had declined the easier of the two fixes.

That was fine, she supposed, he was well within his rights. That wasn’t what bothered her the most about the situation. What hurt, and made her angry all at the same time, that of all people, he was risking his life for…

"Doctor."

She looks up from where she’s been holding her head in her hands, eyes locking on the hulking, black-armored form of the Federal Army’s resident mercenary. She springs her false smile back into place, even though he can’t see it, and straightens up, though she owes him no such courtesy and they _both_ know that.

"What can I do for _you_ , Locus?"

"I’ve received word from the general. He has made it to Armonia safely."

"Oh, excellent! You know, I’m _sure_ he would have called me himself, though! You really didn’t need to come all the way down here!"

"I thought you would like to know.”

“Mm. Well, I appreciate it all the same! Thank you very much.”

“I will be leaving soon to join him."

"Have a safe trip, then, Locus! … you can go now!"

Locus just turns on his heel and stalks out, as silently as ever. Like a particularly irritable housecat, as the general would say… sort of. He’d never call Locus irritable, but they’re all thinking it. She knows they are.

As soon as the door shuts behind the mercenary, Emily’s poor, abused notepad whips across the room, finally cracking and shattering against the door, dropping to the ground in a hopeless pile of pieces. She merely stares in the direction of the door with her hand still partially raised from the throw, some acidic emotion that she can’t immediately identify burning at the back of her throat.

It isn’t _fair_. General Doyle is the only person in the world who’s ever been so nice to her. He makes her feel warm inside, like glitter is exploding inside of her. No other person has ever made her feel that way before. He’s so nice to her, he cares about her, and she cares about him! He’s so very important to her, and she doesn’t want to see him get hurt, especially not like this.

They’ve been friends for _years_. She’d met him back when the brigadier had first called her into his office after Doyle had gotten a splinter and fainted upon trying to pull it out. She’d pulled the splinter out for him, gotten him back upright in his chair, and even made him a cup of peppermint tea to get him back to himself and settle his stomach. She’d come back to check on him later in the day, they’d gotten dinner, chatted. He started calling her directly whenever he felt sick from then on, started asking her to get meals whenever he thought she might not have eaten for awhile. They were looking out for each other.

 _Years_ . It’s been literal years. Years of kind words and medical priority, even before his promotion to general. Years of late night quarters- and office-calls, of anxiety attacks and stress rashes and stress-induced vomiting. Of insomnia and tea at three o’clock in the morning when he wandered down to her office for anything, anything at all, to help him sleep. Monitoring blood pressure and racing heartbeats and reassuring him that he isn’t dying and he’ll be just fine in just a few moments and would he _please_ try to take some deep breaths before he starves himself of oxygen again and passes out?

Why does it have to be _Locus_ ? Locus has no feelings! He doesn’t talk to anyone! He clearly doesn’t _care_ about General Doyle! He’s not _worth_ choking to death over! She can’t let her friend do that to himself! Her friend is suffering for someone who doesn’t even notice, and that makes her so indescribably furious. The person she cares about more than anyone else is poisoning himself on such toxic emotion and it breaks her heart to see him do so without even understanding that he’s hurting himself so badly. He can’t see it, but she can.

Some days, she just wants to--

Her arm finally drops, wrist smacking against the edge of her desk on the way down with a crack that would be terrifying if it hadn’t just been the sound her armor’s impact against the well-worked surface. No. She’s a doctor. She can’t do that. And if she did, what would General Doyle think of her then? He’d hate her. He would hate her, and she can’t take that chance. And she’s sure that he would know her handiwork, or she’d be so unable to keep a secret from him that she’d blurt out what she’d done. What’s more, he’d be so upset that Locus was gone. Locus, the menace, makes him feel _safe_ and she can’t take that away from him without being immediately able to step in and take his place.

… it’s alright. It’s alright, she’ll… just keep treating him. She’ll just keep doing her best to keep him comfortable. Maybe he’ll come to his senses and see that Locus isn’t right for him, doesn’t _love_ him, and he’ll let her remove those filthy parasites once and for all! Then his feelings for Locus would be gone! The problem would be solved!


	2. Chapter 2

_“Ooh, what’s the matter? Did the big bad freelancer get all tuckered out?”_

_“Do you know where we are?”_

_“Huh?”_

_“This is a remote research facility designed to study the surrounding wildlife! I volunteered at one just like it at grad school! It’s got a laboratory, an incinerator and oodles of state of the art surgical equipment. … would you like to see them?”_

Her subject -- she’s learned that his name is Zachary from examining his dog tags, that he was just _desperate_ to keep her away from -- continues screaming, and she pauses her absent singing in order to chastise him for doing so.

“Oh hush!” she chimes, turning his head a little to get a better look at one of his cheeks. Her own cheeks have been stinging from the talking, and as she realizes this, her mind lights up with a brilliant idea.

Zachary just thrashes against the restraints, trying to turn his head back, but her hand planted firmly over his eye holds him in place. Either his neck is _quite_ weak, which is unlikely, or the adrenaline has boosted her already strong wrists. Perhaps a lack of inhibition due to stress or potentially even psychosis -- no, no, not psychosis, she thinks. Stress, perhaps.

“Get off of me you psychopath!”

Oh, he doesn’t seem to know what psychopathy is. She just shakes her head with a good-natured smile. She really can’t fault him, though, _most_ people don’t know what that word means. And she really doesn’t have the time (or desire) to educate him.

She reaches up and takes off her helmet, setting it aside and wiping the back of her hand across her forehead to make it look as if she was wiping away sweat. She's not breaking a sweat at all! She sees Zachary look up, and watches him flinch and retch at the sight of her stitches, and her grin is broad enough that she can feel them straining. She doesn’t know if he was at her outpost or not. And it’s highly unlikely that he was one of the individuals that had taken part in the disfigurement of her face. But in all honesty, that probably would not lessen the unpleasantness of looking at it. To save the poor thing from vomiting all over himself -- and possibly aspirating it, he’s stuck on his back, after all -- she turns his head to the side, sparing him the gorey sight.

“Aw! You don't seem like you’re _enjoying_ this, Zachary!” She’s _sure_ she could do a much better job “making him seem more cheerful” -- like his comrades at the outpost had done for her. Her own injuries are so jagged and messy, she could do it so much cleaner! “Maybe I should fix that!”

She feels him start to struggle again, but simply repositions in order to keep him pinned properly. Can’t have him _ruining_ it! Instead of her hand holding his head in place, she rests her forearm along his brow to weigh it down. But the thrashing returns, and she finally gives up on keeping his head pinned down herself, securing it into place with the remaining restraint belt on her borrowed table. There. That’s _much_ better!

In order to reach better, she pulls herself up onto the table, settles on his abdomen with one knee on either side. _So_ much easier to work from directly above! The scalpel makes contact with soft flesh at the corner of his mouth, not digging in yet. Her own mouth quirks to one side, and after tracing for a moment where she intends to make her incisions, leaving a faint scratch to guide herself, she gets to work.

As she cuts, she imagines that it’s not some meaningless grunt under her hands, but that hulking, too-stoic monster. That tall, looming brute who is single-handedly responsible not only for the slaughter of her entire medical staff (and everyone else at her outpost), but for slowly killing her closest friend from the inside out -- whether he notices or not! And furthermore, condemning him to such discomfort and possible injury, as vigorous coughing, like the type that occurs with hanahaki-type pneumafytotrophy, can cause headaches and incontinence, and can disrupt sleep, which leads, eventually, to a _plethora_ of other problems -- sleep is very important to one’s health! And coughing so vigorously can even break ribs! She _knows_ how painful that could be, and it makes her so _angry_ to think that her friend might suffer like that for someone who could not care less about him!

But, of course, it shatters the illusion entirely when her subject keeps _screaming_ \-- she can practically _hear_ the damage all that noise is probably doing to his vocal cords! But _Locus_ wouldn’t do that at all. No, no, General Doyle’s “perfect soldier” would _never_ give her that satisfaction.

She wonders idly what Locus told General Doyle about what happened at the outpost. She wonders what the general thinks happened there, and if he even knows about it. It might be in Locus’ best interest not to tell him, after all. It’s not exactly great for morale to discover that an entire outpost and medical facility have been slaughtered! Still… she can’t help but think of how worried her friend would be if he knew there had been an attack. Especially if she didn’t check in. He’s already so prone to worry, and to overthinking, it’s just cruel… but Locus doesn’t care about that.

Usually, Emily’s very happy to be right. Or rather, she’s _accustomed_ to it, at least ninety percent of the time. Ninety-three to ninety-five percent if you’re counting “not technically wrong” and “technically right.” And in all honesty, she’ll take a five to seven percent error margin if she can’t be perfect -- she does _strive_ for perfection, after all, but she’s only human, and unforeseen variables exist. But this time, she finds that she _hates_ having been right about Locus. She hates that she was right about Locus not giving a _damn_ about General Doyle. How could he not _know_ how the general has been suffering? And it’s true that maybe he doesn’t know that _he’s_ the cause, but General Doyle tells him _everything,_ there’s _no way_ he doesn’t know! It’s so _pointlessly cruel_!

She’s never hated Locus more than she does right now.

Once she finishes, the doctor looks down at her handiwork, nodding a little at the incision. She’s always been very proud of her nice, clean cuts. But she’s not sure she wants to even him up: after all, asymmetry is just so much prettier to look at. She prefers her asymmetry when it leans more to the left, and she realizes that she’s disfigured his right cheek.

That’s alright. It suits him anyway.

As she admires her work, she can hear Zachary sobbing, gasping for air against what must be such agony. She, unlike the amateurs that worked on _her_ face, got allllll the way through the cheek muscles -- at least part of the way up the face, anyhow. She’s actually sure she dug into the gums at some points! That was _hardly_ the right scalpel for the job, very much excessive, but she’s just so _limited_ out here! But, she’d needed to leave his mouth functional, so that he can give them information.

“O-Okay.”

Zachary’s panting, probably in a lot of pain. She would normally concern herself with _preventing_ pain, but she can’t find it in her to care about it right now. She simply fixes Zachary with a stare, and a bright, friendly smile. “What was that, dear?”

“Okay, I’ll… what d’you wanna know?”

“Hmmm. There are _a lot_ of things I’d like to know, Zachary.” She’s even willing to offer him something for the pain in exchange for the information. Whether she’ll give it to him remains to be seen, but she’ll offer. “So, what have you got to share with me?”

“I… uh I… shit, y-you’re a fed, right? Yeah, Locus is planning to kill your general.”

“Oh dear…” She frowns. “I should have been more specific. When I ask for information, I expect you to tell me something I _don’t_ know, Zachary. Hm… it looks like I’ll have to even your face up after all…”

“W-Wait--! There’s… there’s a radio jammer! It’s… it’s really close! I-I… I-I’ll give you the coordinates!”

Well, that’s _much_ better! It seems as though Zachary’s earned himself a little topical anesthetic for the pain in his face! No sedatives, but she’s sure he’ll take what he’s given and be thankful for it!

… of course, she’s more than prepared to deal with him not being thankful. She’ll never pass up an opportunity to observe organ function as it happens, and Zachary’s torso would be just _perfect_ for cardiovascular observation!

“That’s very informative, Zachary! Now, are you going to be polite to Agents Carolina and Washington? Or shall we see how many of your fingers I can amputate in a minute?”


	3. Chapter 3

They’re finally rescued. They attack the radio jammer, they make contact with the general and the soldiers in the capital. The army makes contact, and soon, there’s two air transports landing at their position, and several ground vehicles screaming to rough halts nearby.

When the transports land, she looks up to direct the rescue team to Captain Tucker, being surprised when she sees the tan of rebel armor, despite the markings on the pelican and falcon denoting them as Federal Army ships. But she doesn’t question the rescue, not when Captains Grif and Simmons greet the rebels.

First, they’re all taken to the New Republic’s headquarters, underground as it is, where she finishes treating Captain Tucker’s stab wound, and helps Agent Carolina with her leg -- poor thing will need it amputated within a month if she doesn’t stop putting stress on it, but she’s got prosthetic bases at the ready anyhow! And when she finally steps out of the medical center, armor finally cleaned of their heroes’ blood, a small convoy of vehicles rushes past her to park in the open center of the compound, several mongooses and a few warthogs. From somewhere at the front of the pack, she hears a familiar voice calling her name, and she barely has time to turn before she’s caught in a frantic hug by someone not much taller than herself. But the contact doesn’t have her skin crawling, so she knows that it’s General Doyle. Oh she just _knew_ he’d be happy to see her! And she’s so happy that he is. She’s so happy to see that he’s okay too! However… the happiness is short-lived, fading away when she hears the coughing.

He sees her face that night, when Vanessa Kimball sets them up in the same quarters, and while she sees that he’s horrified, he isn’t _disgusted_ . He helps her clean the wounds, he listens to her story of what happened at the outpost, vague as it may be from her reluctance to relive the memory, and he asks no unnecessary questions. He doesn’t need to know what went on in the jungle. She doesn’t want him to know that she could ever do something like that: he’d be _terrified_ . He really would be disgusted with her then. And she just _can’t_ have that.

They move to Armonia within a day or two. She sets up shop in the hospital there, has some of the soldiers retrieve supplies from Outpost Thirty-Seven, goes back a week later herself with General Doyle and a couple of others to retrieve her notes and her prototypes and some other things. Personal effects, both hers and General Doyle’s. And after their own belongings are secured in the back of the transport, it’s with morbid curiosity that they break open the door to Locus’ assigned quarters. It’s very telling that it’s utterly bare: no trace that he was ever there. The cot is bare, the sheets and blankets still folded crisply at the foot of it, and while Emily can tell they have literally been sitting like this for years, she knows that the general isn’t convinced of the same.

But she doesn’t address it. There are far more important matters, the general would say, and she respects that. The strained truce between the armies, the knowledge of just how bad their situation really is. There’s far too much going on. So, she does her work. She doesn’t see much of General Doyle, unfortunately. He checks on her from time to time, of course, and even brings her food once or twice. But he’s got much more important work of his own to be doing, he can’t exactly be making social calls!

At least, that was what she’d thought. But then she hears the knocking at the door to her quarters, and she hesitates to go to it and answer. Is it one of the Reds or Blues? Perhaps Agent Washington, looking for a sleep aid. Maybe a soldier with a minor injury that can wait until morning. She simply continues removing her armor, pulling away what she can before she reaches up to remove her helmet, and he catches her on her radio just in time.

“E-Emily… p-pl… please…”

She’s heard him say her given name this way before, and it always sent her running to the door in order to help. But rather than go immediately to the door, she waits back, continuing to remove her armor, until she hears the fitful coughing, even some gagging and retching. She hears something heavy bounce off of her door and hit the ground, and the coughing grows noticeably louder. She lets the fit subside before she finally opens it for him.

The general looks awful. He’s pale and panting, undoubtedly from his coughing fit, his lips and chin slick and shiny with bloody saliva. A small pile of bloody flower petals lay on the ground beside his discarded helmet, with a few stragglers clinging to the ridges of his armor on the way down.

“Good evening!” she chirps, speaking as if she neither heard his coughing, nor noticed his current state. “And what can I _do_ for you, General Doyle?”

“… i-it’s… it’s terribly painful, Emily… it has been… since the al… alter--” He gasps as another fit grips him, doubling him over and quickly forcing him to his knees. He spits more blood and saliva and petals, hacking and coughing and gasping for breath.

The doctor simply stands above him, waiting for his fit to pass. It almost seems pitiful. Here he is, helpless and kneeling at her feet and all he has to do is just let her take his pain away. But every time she has offered to help him in such a way, he has refused.

But perhaps now, after everything, he’ll finally listen to reason.

When his fit subsides, Emily kneels across from him, reaching out to grasp his chin and tilt his head up. The slickness on his chin is warm, and she does remember that it’s blood. It doesn’t bother her. She’s really no stranger to having bodily fluids spat up onto her, after all. She’s had blood sneezed directly into her face: epistaxis can be a _nightmare_. She’d had to cauterize that nose twice.

“… will you let me help you now?”

He looks up at her, and tries to clear his throat to speak, probably to try to stutter out the same old tired protest, and ends up wheezing for a moment before he does. “… p… please… Emily… i-isn’t there… another way--”

“No.”

All the cheer is gone from the doctor’s voice, leaving it sharp and dangerous, not unlike one of her favorite medical tools, as her smile drops away. Not that he can see it: she was sure to put on a disposable surgical mask before answering the door. It’s better to sleep with her wounds -- well on their way to being scars by now -- covered, but they need to breathe to heal properly.

“I told you that hanahaki-type pneumafytotrophy is a very treatable condition. We _believe_ it results from a genetic mutation, possibly a _hereditary_ one, though we’re not _entirely_ sure! The going _theory_ is that prolonged exposure to a certain biochemical _cocktail_ of hormones, other neurotransmitters, produced by the anxiety of unresolved, or _unexpressed_ , emotion, can trigger the normally- _harmless_ mutation, causing it to produce plant-like growths in the lungs, including _petals_ , and even functioning _roots_! These roots can grow into and through the lung tissue, and they can cause _so_ many complications. But the easiest fix is to _remove_ the growths, _not_ to wait for your brain to stop producing the chemicals that feed them.”

Her thumb shifts, wiping away some of the blood almost tenderly. Far more than she would normally have in any other setting. Her hazel-gray eyes finally find his blue ones, and when they do, she can see that his are wide and full of pain and fear.

She can’t fault him: people seem to want to hold onto feelings, emotions, even when they hurt. She understands it, humans as a rule are afraid to end up alone, so they cling to love. Even when that love is literally killing them. And a great many people lack a certain emotional control that allows them to think clearly in the face of overwhelming emotion. General Doyle isn’t stupid, by any means, but emotions can cloud even the judgement of the smartest among them, she’s found. Well, not her, but she’s a special case. She’s got her emotions in check because she’s figured out how to do it: she needed to adapt, she adapted.

But seeing him like this tugs at her heart, makes her feel just so awful for him. If he had just let her help him from the start, let her remove the growths when they started shedding petals, he wouldn’t have gotten so bad. He wouldn’t be in such pain now. Fortunately, she knows precisely what to say to convince him.

“… do you _remember_ what I told you when I first diagnosed your condition?” she asks simply, tilting her head as she smiles at him. "That unless the growths were _removed_ , or he returned your affections, the disease would become fatal?”

 He nods, but doesn’t say anything. He just coughs again.

 "Locus and his soldiers killed _so many_ of ours, and _would_ have killed so many more. He _plans_ to kill so many more. We can’t even really be sure that he and his comrades didn’t orchestrate _General Brackett’s_ death. Locus turned his back on us. On _you_. He _never_ cared about you. I _know_ that that hurts to hear. And I _never_ want anyone to be in pain. It’s not _your_ fault that your emotions and your _illness_ got the better of you, or that he _manipulated_ you so terribly. And I couldn’t be more _sorry_ that that happened to you. But he _intended_ to see you _dead_.”

The general coughs again, trying to politely cover his mouth and looking away, embarrassed, as he fails. A few more petals and drops of saliva and blood splatter down onto her hand. She, however, continues to speak, as if she didn’t notice.

“ _And_ if you let those _parasites_ remain where they are, then, technically, he still _will_ kill you. You will either _drown_ in your own _blood_ as they continue to damage and eventually rupture your organs, _or_ you may get lucky and _choke_ to death before that! There is _no_ alternative. _Whichever_ course your illness takes, you _will_ spend your last moments in immense pain, and utter terror, as you will no longer be able to _breathe_. _Or_ , you can let me _remove_ the growths, and _repair_ the damage, and you will be able to see him brought to _justice_ for what he’s done.”

They stay that way, kneeling across from each other and saying nothing. She just stares him down, watching for his reaction. After a long, long moment, he speaks. He doesn’t turn his eyes up to her, but he does speak. “… do you promise the surgery will cure it? If we do this, they’ll be gone?”

“Your chance of a relapse will be _less_ than two percent, but if they _do_ grow back, I will be _more_ than happy to remove them again. _Please_ , let me _help_ you.”

He nods shakily, and he finally looks up at her. “… this… may seem like a strange request… but could you… try to… preserve them? Just long enough for me to see them?”

“Of _course_ I can do that for you, General Doyle!”

“… what does… wh-what does my recovery time look like?”

“I’ll need to take a few scans to make _sure_ , but it _could_ be up to six weeks!”

“S-Six weeks?!"

“Well, _yes_ , your lungs don’t just knit back together _overnight_ after they’ve been _cut open_ , sweetie! Given how low-impact your workload has been _thus_ far, though, I _might_ be able to clear you for duty sooner than I’d be able to clear _anyone_ else! Depending on how _extensive_ the growths have become, the recovery _could_ take far less time. _But_ it’s better to do it _now_ , before it gets any _worse_!”

“… a-alright. Alright. … h-how soon can we do it?”


End file.
